


Maybe is a Miracle

by Yeomanrand



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Supernatural
Genre: Gen, POV Male Character, POV Third Person, Panic Attacks, Past Torture, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Present Tense, Somewhere in S11, Team Free Will, not exactly canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-04-27 18:51:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5060041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yeomanrand/pseuds/Yeomanrand
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Prayer comes back first</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Prayer came back first, one resurrected element of a good Anglican boy. The man with no identity, the living weapon turned against its former masters, and the first thing he remembers clearly, can claim as his own, is an altar boy's black cassock and "Our Father..."

He doesn't enter churches. Can't imagine where he'd begin with confession. And "go, and sin no more" really isn't an option. He still has work to do. He still has a mission.

He still needs to burn the bones of Hydra to ash.

But he surprises himself by praying. To what or whom he doesn't know. Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe it never mattered. He doesn't remember if he prayed before the fall and the pain or in the dark spaces between the burning light of awakening. He doesn't think he believes any more, if he ever truly did. But he remembers prayer, and so he prays because he remembers.

For a slim connection to his past, to who he was in the nebulous before returning to him in fractured shards and memory-pieces. Things too scattered still to form even the parts of a whole.

He spends a lot of time in dingy motel rooms.

He knows the man from the bridge still looks for him, knows it the way another man might know his name. The man who'd called him 'friend.' Who'd promised to be with him until the end of the line.

He shivers, falls again in his memory. Terrified blue eyes, a broad hand trying to catch hold of him.

"Hello."

He's on his feet and across the room quick as thinking, reaching for the lapels of a dirty tan trenchcoat only they're already not there any more and he pulls up short, flattens his back against the wall.

The wrong blue eyes in the wrong face look back at him. No widening, no shock at his reflexes, no sense of threatening or being threatened. Something unreadable. Someone strange.

"Who the hell are you?"

"I am Castiel. I am — I was," he corrects himself, and deflates slightly, "an Angel of the Lord."

The man who might have been James Barnes feels himself blink. Stares, and is stared at in return. The words are all words, but in order they have no sense.

Castiel's arms hang from his shoulders as though he does not quite know what to do with them, the shoulders themselves rounded beneath the trenchcoat. His eyes, despite the dark shadows beneath, are sharp; he cocks his head and regards the other man in an oddly bird-like gesture. He is not a small man, and he does not hold himself like a fighter, but he is fast — faster than the man with the metal arm, certainly. Possibly faster than the male twin.

His lips thin. 

"No," Castiel says, his voice a harsh rasp. As though he were unused to speech, or perhaps restraining his voice. "I am nothing like Lucifer."

If he still laughed, this would be the moment; instead, his lips curl faintly and the expression fades without ever lifting his eyes. He lets the cant of his head and shoulders ask the question for him, or perhaps this Castiel, this 'angel' can read his mind.

Castiel's head tilts the other way. "Perhaps I am, then. Somewhat. I might even be worse, in some ways."

He sighs with the weight of more lifetimes than even the weapon can imagine and leans against the wall.

Silence settles over them like dark wings. Neither fidgets. Castiel looks away first.

"I heard your prayers," he says, always answering unasked questions. "They seemed quite loud."

"I thought you weren't an angel."

"I...don't know." That quick bird-like gesture of consideration again. "I was. Many things have happened since then."

And he knows the very human look on the not-angel's face, pinched around the eyes and mouth, a faint furrow between the brows. Has felt that look from the inside.

Lets himself settle into the semi-comfortable chair near the table in the room, tucking one foot up onto the seat as well, the heel almost touching his rear. "You don't remember."

"Not all of it." Their gazes meet and hold. "Perhaps that is what drew me here."

This time, he looks away first.

A soft shift, like the ruffle of feathers, and Castiel is sitting on the undisturbed bed. He folds his hands together between his knees, elbows resting on his thighs. Not quite invading his personal space. 

"I heard you. I know some of what they did to you. Even if I were what I have been, I do not believe I could safely return what was taken. Some things, once broken, can only mend with time," he finishes, and the man recognizes the weary finality of a lesson hard-learned. 

Castiel lifts his head to look at him again. "I know what it is like to be stripped of everything, to be remade again and again. To be trained to look at a friend and see only an enemy. A mission."

He's surprised by the soft noise he makes; the angel nods but his gaze is far away. Seeing another face, hearing another echo.

He wonders who, or what, he sees.

"Most people will tell you what happened is not your fault. I believe they are telling the truth as they understand it. From the outside. From the inside, it's not that simple."

He turns his head away, catches motion in the dark TV across the room, the flutter and fall of hair he keeps thinking about cutting short and not wanting to let go. His own unfamiliar face reflected back at him like a photograph and a life story he recognizes but can't remember. Two dates of birth.

The unshakable feeling he should be standing beside and to the left of the man from the bridge, from the helicarrier. That he stood there before, leading and following and another tiny shard of memory floats free.

_I got this._

"I know you had no choice."

He blinks, looks back at Castiel, into suddenly earnest blue eyes.

"I also know that free will is not an illusion. Even when it has been stolen, something can always call it back. Even in a being meant to be nothing more than a soldier. A weapon."

He can't help himself, the venom. "A kiss from a prince?"

Castiel's gaze never wavers. "Doubtful. But the right words. The right reminder."

_I'm with you to the end of the line._

"Fuck." He swings up, faces the wall and braces his replacement hand on it, head dropping between his shoulders and the fingers in his others balled up into a fist. Turns his head to keep the angel in his field of vision.

"Yes," the answer comes, darkly. "I believe that is an appropriate response."

He realizes he's breathing fast and shallow, forces himself to regulate, to calm but it's getting harder and harder not to tear the room and possibly himself to pieces.

And then Castiel is suddenly beside him; moving, from the bed to his side in two steps. He's warmer than the man expects, though he doesn't know what he expected. 

"I was frightened, too, when I realized everything was mine to choose. Free will is a blessing and a curse. I find it preferable to the alternative, despite its difficulties."

"Is this fear?"

"I don't know. Probably. The symptoms look much like anger, in the end." He's so sincere the man can't laugh, even if he remembered how. "You're not a drafted soldier anymore. Nor a weapon. Nor helpless. What you do now, and who you do it with, and how you do it; that's all your choice.

"And I think that's how we figure it all out. Who we are. What kind of beings we are."

He swears he feels the rough brush of feathers against his cheek when Castiel vanishes.

He slowly relaxes, shivering. Finds his way to the bed, throws the bedspread on the floor and wraps himself tightly in the blanket. Wants to go numb, doesn't want to _feel_ anger or shame or fear or whatever he's been left with. Doesn't want to remember he's human.

Or maybe he does. Something, or someone, uncoils from deep inside his chest, a burning pain like stretching an underused muscle. 

_...to the end of the line, pal._

He rolls onto his back, stares at the ceiling. Tries on the name 'Bucky' again; still feels like he's pulling on a stranger's jacket rather than his own worn t-shirt. But it's not a mask or a muzzle, either, not a uniform straight out of supply. It could be his.

If he chooses.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes a full-blown panic attack; please be aware.
> 
> A million billion thanks to Sharpestscalpel and shinychimera for beta.

Bucky — _Bucky_ , he reminds himself from the calm corner of his mind, Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes — wakes up from less than two hours' chilly sleep already reaching under his pillow for his knife. Hyperaware of all the exits, including the paper-thin last-resort walls of his motel room. The air around him feels different, somehow, like ears popping at a height.

He doesn't flinch when a truck downshifts on the nearby highway. Lets the fear and half-hidden memory ( _convoy truck; a near identical grind in the gears; a snowy highway; a blonde, mustachioed soldier softly bitching about the poorly-treated engine_ ) wash through him, leaving only adrenaline behind.

He slips off the bed, feet directly into his waiting boots, moves toward the door. Pauses. Waits for the vibration of movement, the low rumble of other booted footsteps. Second floor, always; unless _they_ send a solo after him ( _that would be stupid, and they're not stupid_ ) he can feel _them_ coming before they can surround him. 

"Dammit, Cas, I hate when you do that." A man's baritone coming up the stairs, a deep growl. Bucky is becoming familiar enough with voices to know he's not really angry but not familiar enough to identify the feeling beneath.

"We had a lot of distance to cover. Sam has the Impala, and Metatron still has my _crappy_ car."

That voice he knows, though it takes a shivery moment to place it; the not-an-angel. Castiel. Unlikely threat; _they_ are the sorts who would make deals with anyone, but he cannot imagine an angel dealing with _them_.

But he could be wrong. So he stays away from the window, checks the locks on the door. Avoids the peephole. As little sign as possible anyone is here. Castiel may already know, but the stranger is not cleared. And, he doesn't know what a 'Metatron' is, or if it has any relation to the 'Ultron' that was the last thing the man from the bridge — (warm blue eyes, hardening) — and his team, _The Avengers targets-not-targets_ , had to bring to heel.

"Give it a rest, Cas, Sam wasn't thinking. The hell are we doing here? You urgently needed me at a middle-of-nowhere shithole motel? I've got a bed back at the bunker with memory foam."

"I do not see the relevance," Castiel replies, from much nearer the motel room door. Bucky does not need to hide his smirk; he doesn't understand _memory foam_ but he does understand the tone of the other man's voice. Both from his own jagged memories and because he's been propositioned once or twice since he walked away from the man on the river side, by men and women. 

He has never accepted. He does not know who an assignation would be less safe for.

"Of course not." The words drip sarcasm but not bile. "Explanations, Cas. What's lurking in the room?"

His heart is still racing, his adrenaline still high but the odds of a threat to his mission — _he has no mission survival is his mission_ — are decreasing rapidly.

"Someone I want you to meet," Castiel says, the gravel rumble of a human throat speaking an angel's words. ( _A someone, not a what? Castiel thinks so._ ) "Please, Dean."

The low grumble in response is almost lost in Castiel's sharp rap on the flimsy door. The asset — _Bucky_ — doesn't flinch because he'd been prepared. Not like eighteen hours and thirty minutes ago, when he'd nearly lost his freedom to a flashback.

He can't remember. He might have prayed. 

He's been trying not to. He doesn't deserve an answer.

He makes sure his arm is hidden and opens the door; a quick crack, first, a scan to ascertain what he knows and to scan the parking lot and sky for hostiles. Closes it.

"For crying out —" Castiel's companion starts, finishing, "loud." much more weakly as the door opens wide enough to permit entry.

"Castiel," he says, from the sheltered position behind the door. "Come in."

The man — half-healed black eye, slightly swollen jaw, cut above his eyebrow, split lip, two inches on Castiel, probably Anglo-Saxon descent, muscular, bow-legged, slope-shouldered, brown hair, eye color indeterminate in the fading light of dusk and the yellow sodium lights, knife in his boot and gun at the small of his back — steps in before Castiel. Clearing the room. 

He approves. He also keeps himself behind the door until it latches closed behind them. Slides the hook and chain into place.

The bow-legged man speaks. "You know that won't do squat to keep anything out, right?"

Bucky shrugs. "I replaced the screws."

It's not a lot more security, but the change means the door will likely give before the lock.

The man's eyebrows do something complicated. Castiel, either oblivious or considering the expression unimportant, looks at Bucky.

"Sergeant," he says, and if he didn't have enhanced hearing Bucky would have to strain, "Dean Winchester."

Dean's eyes narrow — green — and he turns his head toward the angel. Castiel's face is impassive.

"Sergeant?" he queries the angel, and then sighs and shrugs. Extends his hand. "Hi, Sarge. Can't tell you yet if it's a pleasure."

The pseudonym falls from the corner of a twisted smile, all hard angles and distrust of authority; a knowing acknowledgment of a false identity from a con man. Bucky looks into his face, nods, and pauses.

This man has lived more years than his body suggests.  
This man is a soldier.  
This man did not want to go to war.  
This man is weary of fighting.  
This man has hunted.  
This man has done wrong when he thought he was doing right.  
This man has been tortured.  
This man has tortured.

He surprises himself by accepting the hand. 

"Dean. Likewise."

There's a flash of an honest smile, one Bucky suspects would lighten Dean's face tremendously, taking him from merely attractive to stunning (like the man from the bridge, he thinks, another flash of memory there and gone again). They release hands, turn to where Castiel was standing. He is no longer there; Bucky looks at Dean. This man who is so very like him and yet still human.

Dean's shrug is easy and belies the crackling irritation in his gaze.

"He does that," he says.

"I know," Bucky answers. "He told me what he is. Was?"

 _Oh_ , Dean's face says. _Huh_. He sits down on the only chair in the room; Bucky remains standing.

"That's good," Dean says, and Bucky can hear he considers it no such thing. "Guess I don't need to give you The Talk."

His grin, bright and false, is appealing enough, a cover for whatever darkness flickers behind his eyes; Bucky's mouth stretches and for just a moment he considers responding with innuendo from another time, another place. Flirtation is something he thinks Bucky did, once, like breathing; the asset has never needed to.

"Sorry," Castiel says, breaking the moment. Bucky startles two steps away from him. "Thought I heard a lead on angel radio."

"Metatron?" He and Dean ask, in unison, bright curiosity and black irritation making a murky two-note chord. Dean gives Bucky a look that warns of danger to come, the flat neutrality of a man deciding how to deal with a threat. Bucky shrugs.

"I have good ears."

"Yes, Metatron, and he does, Dean. It didn't pan out. I gather he has figured out how to change the license plates on my car."

Dean rubs the back of his own neck, but Bucky feels the air of the room change and his own tension ratchets down about ten degrees.

"I don't know about any Talks," he says to the space between them, breaking the ensuing silence, "but what's a Metatron?"

Dean and Castiel share a _look_. Bucky regrets asking, and the asset perches on the edge of the bed, waiting for the briefing.

 

Two and three-quarters hours later, Bucky is no longer quite certain what to make of the two people in front of him. Never thought he'd consider himself _fortunate_ to have had to completely rewire his understanding of the world, of what is good and what is bad and what apocalypses have occurred or been averted.

Doing so a second time hasn't triggered a panic attack. So far.

Even for him, there's a lot of information to process. 

Dean had done most of the talking: his brother, the Apocalypse, heaven, hell, witchery, magic, the Metatron, this fierce unspoken protectiveness toward both the brother and Castiel. 

The existence of inhuman monsters.

That last hadn't been much of a revelation to Bucky.

 _You don't have one of those, do you?_ His own voice, a bewildering scrap of memory.

"Whoa," Dean says, shifting out of the slouch he'd settled in when he finished talking. "Hey. I know that face, Sarge."

Bucky's lips part and his mind goes blank and he realizes— _they_ would have eaten Dean alive. He cares too much.

This man is the man who was Castiel's friend and was made his mission.

"What's gone and what's past help should be past grief," he says, and he doesn't know which of the three of them he's addressing. 

Dean glances at Castiel, guard down a little too far; eyes off Bucky for long enough they could both be dead, if they were his mission.

_Who the hell is Bucky?_

"Shakespeare," Castiel says. "The Winter's Tale."

"Someday, you're going to tell me how you know that," Dean says, looking back at Bucky.

"I have told you. You don't want to accept the answer."

_You're a punk._

_Jerk._

He knows why Castiel brought Dean.

_Redemption. Forgiveness. Companionship. Shared history. Shared stories. Soldiers blowing off steam during leave._

That sharp unfamiliar stretch in his chest again. He hasn't felt it since the last time he saw Castiel.

Twenty-two hours and fifteen minutes since the last snatch-and-grab attempt. 

He looks directly at Castiel, interrupts Dean. 

"They're tracking me," he says. Two sets of they, but one hasn't figured out he's a homing beacon yet. "Thirty-six to forty-eight to organize retrieval once I settle down."

Twenty-four to thirty-six the next time. He gestures at the metallic arm hidden by sleeve and pocket.

"I cut out the ones I could reach, but…"

"But something's going on under there you can't fix or carve out yourself," Dean finishes for him, another sharp glance at Castiel. "Want me to have a look?"

Dean's fingers twitch, easy enough to read his inquisitive eagerness to get at Bucky's replacement limb, a gesture he's seen too often before and memories of pain and the expectation of more go off in the asset's head, and this time, _this time he can fight back_ like he did at the beginning, fight and kill his way out or die trying.

"Cas!" A frightened, angry shout, irrelevant to his mission. 

_You don't have a mission._

"Hey, Sarge? Sarge? You want to put that thing away? Don't make me do something we'll all regret in the morning." A voice, distant. Familiar. Not the man who must be obeyed, not Zola, not any of his handlers.

_I'm not going to fight you._

Not that voice, not the man from the bridge but another man, _Dean_. He gasps in air and his fingers are tangled in a dirty trenchcoat and he gently returns Castiel's feet— _Must have intercepted, too fast to see_ —to the floor despite fight-or-flight throbbing unchecked through his veins.

_A weapon does not feel fear, and that is all you are. All you have been. All you will ever be. A weapon feels nothing. You feel nothing._

"Sarge? Mutual, uh, disarmament, okay?" Dean has spread his fingers, hand curled loosely around the ivory hilt of the custom Colt M1911A1 he'd been pointing at the asset only moments before.

 _NO_. At _Bucky_.

He realizes he's breathing harshly through clenched teeth, giving too much away and he lets go of Castiel, takes a step backward. Another, through the bathroom doorway.

_Five to the bathroom window and out, shattering glass. An easy two-story drop to the empty lot behind._

It will be a nuisance to rebuild his kit yet again but he knows Dean won't be able to track him, at least, not with only a rank and a computer he wipes after every time he uses it…

_I knew him._  
_He's been out too long._  
_Wipe him._

"Cas —?"

He feels himself shaking his head, backing away, can't tell who's in charge of his body anymore; actually trips and tumbles backward into the shower. Hits his head hard enough to see stars.

"Sarge? Cas! Damn it, come help me!"

He's suddenly cold to the core, not the cryo-ice but actual freezing to death hypothermia and what's going on?

Blood on the snow.

No, that's not snow. He's not hallucinating the smoke of a steam engine ( _it was diesel_ ) pulling away while his broken body lies among the rocks in the icy stream.

Is he?

He hears rough shouting, a growl, but they're fading. Distant, the crackling of the branches his body broke through, the trickling of the stream, the slowing chug-chug of his heart like the train headed into the distance. An eternity of ice, harsh gray skies, broken realization ( _No one is coming for you. They think you're dead. Why aren't you dead?_ ).

A man's fingers, a blue light in his head, and he yanks himself further back. "Don't touch me!"

"Sarge?" He can feel the warmth of hands but no one is touching him and the fingers with their blue light are gone, the ice is gone, time is missing. Twenty two and…? Twenty three? "Hey, Sarge? Listen to me. You're in the Lonely Dog Motel, in the middle of — Cas, where the hell _are_ we?" A rumbling response. "In the middle of nowhere, Nebraska, USA. Okay? You're in the US. Whatever you think is happening right now, isn't. Take a breath for me, yeah?"

He struggles, manages a swooping inhale and a rough exhale. Nods. 

"Okay. I'm Dean, and I'm about three feet from you right now. Castiel has gone into the other room. Nobody's going to touch you unless you ask, all right?"

He manages another harsh breath, another nod. He's not in the middle of the snow, not in the middle of harsh antiseptic lights and the brutal cradle; his head throbs, healing and he lunges for the john, sees Dean scoot back in a hurry but the motion doesn't make it worse because he knows a retreat when he sees one. 

He doesn't actually vomit, but it's a near thing. "Keep talking to me," he rasps, cheek pressed to filthy cracked porcelain and he doesn't even care.

"All right. We just met. I was telling you about angels. And devils. And the fucking dick of an angel who used to be God's Scribe." That's hatred, there, but it's not pointed at Bucky so he ignores. Takes another deep breath and sits back, rubbing at his offended nose.

"Yeah, that didn't look like it would smell so good," Dean says, but there's no laughter in it. "Can you have a look around, tell me what you're seeing?"

"Walls," he answers, "ceiling, floor. Door. John, showerhead, sink. Untied boots."

The breath he takes after is easier.

"Pipes. You."

Dean nods. 

"How long?" He can't lose time; it's _dangerous_ to lose time.

"Half an hour," he says, and the breath after is easier still. Not that much time, in the scheme of things. Still too little remaining.

"You tried underground?" Dean asks him; he shakes his head. 

"Nowhere to go." Too many ways to be trapped, he means.

"Okay, I get that." 

Bucky's breathing is still ragged but no longer out of control; he draws himself to his feet, slowly, because he's already figured out Dean knew what to do because someone else has done this for him. Dean takes to his feet again as well, moves aside so Bucky can get to the sink, run some cold water and splash it on his face.

The damp makes some of his hair stick to his cheek. He doesn't care. He straightens up and looks at Dean through the mirror, similarity again in their thousand-yard stares.

"Thanks."

Dean shrugs, moves away from the doorway. Bucky takes another few moments to splash his face again, drink tap water from his cupped hand.

When he steps out into the room, Dean and Castiel are standing closely together; neither speaking nor touching. He moves, slow and methodic, beginning to collect his things.

"How are they doing it?" Dean asks, turning to face him. "Tracking you."

"I'm not sure," he says. "Satellites?" 

Space exploration, for all he's devoured articles about the subject since he woke, since he _really_ woke, is after his time.

Dean's lips twist like he's about to bite the inside. "That arm — that's Stark-level stuff. I'm good at what I do, but it's way over my head."

Castiel snorts.

"I'm serious, Cas. Can't you just, you know," he gestures inexplicably at his own torso, "whammy him like you did Sam and me?"

Bucky feels his brows contract, but Castiel is shaking his head. "No. Not against other humans. Technology. He is not being hunted by the other angels."

"Friggin' baby in a trenchcoat," Dean says under his breath, shifting his jaw to set his molars against each other. Castiel's nostrils flare; offense, but an old enough insult to be less insulting.

_You're a punk._

_Jerk._

"All right. I know I don't have time to get under the hood of that," Dean says, with a gesture at the arm — indicative, not exploratory, and this time Bucky's only response is a twitch, "before you'll need to get moving again. And I don't think I can, anyway, without setting off a repeat performance."

They both grimace, because he's right. Castiel's expression never changes.

"So, we'll do it this way: if you don't find another solution between now and if ever you make it to Kansas, and if you still want our help then, either dial-a-Cas or come to this address. If we can, we'll be there." 

Dean sets a piece of paper, too yellowed to be part of the hotel notepad, down on the table. He— _Bucky_ —is still trying to sort out the dial-a-Cas reference; from context he knows what Dean means, but it's not a phrase he's heard before. Dean's finger taps on the paper, and Bucky nods.

"If," he says. None of them can offer more. _Metatron. Hydra. Something they're not discussing aloud. The Avengers._

He rubs metal fingers over stubble. Watching them watching him. 

"Oh, and next time you need grounding? You might try naming the things you can see, if you're not sure. See, smell, hear, touch, and taste if you're feeling really bold." Dean shrugs. "I've been there."

Bucky nods, filing the information away in that still small place that was always his. Offers his meat hand to them.

"It has been, Dean."

"What's that, Sarge?" Dean asks, taking the hand and giving a firm shake.

"A pleasure," he says, letting the faintest twitch of a smile touch his lips. "Despite everything."

Dean's eyes round ever so slightly; a less fatal sort of surprise than Bucky's become accustomed to. His bright, even smile does light up his face.

"Of course it has," he says, though his body language stays ambiguous, "you met me."

This time, Bucky's uneven smile reaches his eyes. "Goodbye, Dean."

"Goodbye, Sarge."

Feathers on his cheek, again. A soft rush of air where the man and his angel had been.

He finishes packing; the uncurling ache in his chest feels broader. Deeper. Softer? Restoration of unused muscles, he tells himself, though none of the anatomy carved into his bones lines up precisely with the feeling. Recovery.

He takes the piece of paper from the table last, scans it, tucks it inside his jacket. _Lebanon, Kansas_.

One option open to him in a world full of them. Run away, or go toward. Kansas, or California.

Or New York.

He can choose.


	3. Chapter 3

Bucky isn't praying; he's peeling potatoes in the back of some juke joint off a road in the middle of nowhere, the silver plates of the metal arm hidden beneath a purple glove and the long sleeve of the army surplus jacket he'd picked up outside of Nowhere, Nebraska. He'd shown the woman ( _Maggie,_ the man who'd offered him a ride said, _give her an hour's work and she'll give you a square for now and a square to go_ ) how his artificial arm could be used to grip, carefully keeping it still beneath sleeve and glove. He's practiced; there are better prostheses available now but a vet as down on his luck as he looks ( _as he is_ ) wouldn't necessarily have access.

Definitely wouldn't have access to what Bucky is still saddled with.

_...that's Stark-level stuff._

He keeps flinching whenever someone hits the swinging door between kitchen and bar too hard; the adrenaline flood is useful because his eyes are scratchy and raw.

He can't keep going like this. Minimal nutrition. Minimal sleep. Running from.

_Lebanon, Kansas. Brooklyn, New York. Dial-a-Cas._

What are his other options? He remembers...he watches the blade slice through the skin of the potato. He remembers looking over maps. Setting plans. Listening to the man from the bridge ( _the little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight_ ) shape plans. Helping shape them.

_Barnes. James Buchanan. Sergeant. 3-2-5-5-7-0-3-8._

The slippery potato suddenly flies out of his fingers because he's pressed too hard; he catches it on the point of the peeler as it comes down.

_I knew him._

He needs a new map. He needs to orient himself more fully, to know where _they_ will be coming from. He needs to come back in, but not to report. Not for the chair and the ice and the pain.

_Cut off one head, two more will rise in its place._

The release of the information by the widow who was a girl he knew in the Red Room will have hurt them, have allowed many heads to be cut off, but much will have remained hidden. 

He does not need to remember to be certain. 

He could wait for them here — but there's too much civilian risk ( _the Soldier does not but Bucky_ cares).

So. He will take the hunt to them.

Bucky needs a rifle. He has knives. 

But first: potatoes. картофель. And a square for now and a square to go.

 

One hour and twenty minutes later, just shy of the clock rolling over on a new day, he sets off on foot east-southeast following the highway with one meal digesting in his stomach and another in his pack. Pointed toward a destination he'd been reaching for without being fully aware.

_Lebanon, Kentucky._

The little piece of paper is still in his jacket, near his heart, along with a too-new replica of stylized swept wings he thinks belongs on his left shoulder, rather than the scraped and faded red star. The piece of paper represents allies, at least, though he hadn't planned on heading their way or calling on Castiel again, even inadvertently, until he had something to offer in exchange. Information. Anything other than scattered memories from a generation before. 

_Where are we going?_   
_The future!_

A solid memory, rich with emotion and the tactile feel of the man on the bridge ( _I thought you were smaller_ ) tucked against his side. No matching visual. Exactly the sort to bring him almost to his knees on the concrete.

"No," he tells himself, stopping and breathing in until he's steady again. _Sky. Stars. Highway. Guard rail, bending. Better let that go. Scrub brush._

_Vehicle exhaust. Something sweet but weedy; a flower of some kind? Who barbecues this late at night?_

Soft footfalls on his eight.

"Hungry people."

A familiar raspy voice. Bucky straightens up, turns slightly. "Castiel."

"Hello." 

The angel is the same, tan trench coat, loosened tie and all, but he looks — tired. As though he has been unwell; Bucky wonders what could make an angel ill.

"You really don't want to know," Castiel says, echoing Bucky reaching the same conclusion on his own.

"You didn't pop in."

"No. I'm 'resting'. I don't suppose you understand how orange and black are correlates?"

Bucky has no idea what he's talking about.

"I didn't think so. We're back this way."

Bucky turns to face him, still and always aware of the weight of the arm at his side, how it changes his stride.

That it is him, but not him. The many levels of threat it represents. By him, for him, to him.

Castiel nods when they're face-to-face. "Dean and Sam were hunting. They should be back in a few hours. I believe, if your unnamed _they_ are tracking you by satellite, the bunker will create sufficient interference to widen your window."

"Bunker?"

"Yes, bunker. And yes, it's underground." Castiel hesitates, eyes searching Bucky's face. "Will that be a problem?"

He gives the question honest consideration.

"Not immediately." He doesn't think so, anyway. Depends what's in the bunker, and how much it resembles the hellhole he'd called unconscious home for seventy-some years. He can't guarantee claustrophobia won't become a problem if he's there too long, or how he might react to being entombed in cold concrete.

But one problem at a time, Barnes. Get there, first.

"Yes," Castiel says, with a little nod. He pivots. "Come with me."

 

It's a fairly long walk to the other end of town; Castiel must have heard him coming from a ways away to meet where they had. Bucky doesn't know what to make of that, so he doesn't try.

_Not mission relevant,_ the Winter Soldier murmurs in the back of his head; he shakes that part of himself off.

_I don't have a mission. Survival is the mission. And then we go hunting._

The Soldier grumbles acquiescence and subsides.

Bucky will worry about dissociation later.

Castiel leads him through Lebanon toward the Green River; the narrow blue line clear in Bucky's recently refreshed mental map. Bucky hears the water before he smells it, before they cross into a semi-industrial area with an unnervingly clear layout. Straight lines of sight from anywhere he can see to the almost Art Deco building Castiel has headed toward, one even Bucky can identify as home to a power plant. A hillock his mind easily turns into a foxhole providing not nearly enough shelter from what might be inside.

"Um," he says, before he can stop himself. Castiel pauses.

"I know I'm asking a lot. Trust me."

_Thing is, I can take care of myself._  
 _I know. But you don't_ have _to._

A choice. _His_ choice.

He needs a moment to shift his weight, regain momentum, to move forward; Castiel reaches out a hand but doesn't touch him. Bucky gives him a short nod, and they close the distance to the looming building together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to my subscribers!
> 
> Many thanks to my lovely beta, shinychimera.


	4. Chapter 4

The inside of the power plant is more-or-less exactly what Bucky expects. But the inside of the so-called bunker —

Is an entirely different animal.

He's not a rube, he doesn't stop and gawp at the size of the room in front of him (his lips might part a little and he doesn't approve of giving any intruder the high ground). He's pretty sure the New York Library has more books. He still pauses, turning at the last moment so flesh and bone touch the hardwood of the rail.

Sees how easily he could bottleneck attackers ( _targets_ ) at the bottom of the staircase. His fingers catch on a notch in the wood; he looks more closely.

Not a ricochet point. Not rounded, like a bullet; almost square.

"Crossbow," Castiel says, from the top stair. "I think. I wasn't here when that happened."

Bucky cocks his head. Scans the map on the wall, dozens of pins marking points throughout the country, though the colors are varied enough he suspects they were chosen haphazardly. Very few near significant population centers.

There are stacks of books on the tables. Handwritten notes he can't read from above. Two dirty coffee mugs.

"Come down," Castiel says, maneuvering awkwardly along the stairs. Bucky considers his walk. Wonders if the wings he destroyed on the helicarrier have been repaired.

He follows Castiel down the stairs, into the bunker. Still scanning for traps. Notes the repeated sigils on the columns. The tile beneath their feet. Etched faintly into the shelves.

"What is this?" This place is warmer than his sketchy memories of bunkers, but defensible as any military base he can remember setting foot in. Maybe more so.

Castiel shrugs. "The Bunker," he says.

Bucky feels his lips curl, just a little, the soft exhalation he thinks might someday become the laugh he hasn't remembered yet. And accepts he's just gotten all the answer he's going to.

 

Two hours later, he and Castiel are settled on opposite sides of the table; Bucky has a set of search terms to look for and a photograph of Metatron (not _his_ target, but _a_ target and some small amount of help he can provide) while Castiel pretends to pore over a stack of books. Bucky's sheathed knife rests on the table between them, closer to Castiel than Bucky himself. He's not entirely certain why.

He knows they're underground, but the library or war room they're in doesn't have that _feel_ ; the only sign of their location relative to the surface has to do with the total lack of windows.

Castiel offered him coffee. He declined. The angel isn't drinking any, either.

Bucky can tell from the weary tension in the room: neither of them are having any luck. Castiel is half-asleep over his reading, and Bucky sets his hands on the table to push back, get up and pace again, study the map, something to settle the restless creeping under his skin. 

The sound baffling is good, but he pauses anyway. Hears two sets of footfalls coming from the hallway at the back of the computer room, the rumble of men's voices. Settles back into his seat, hands resting on the table instead; Castiel looks up.

"—pires, Sam. Come on!" 

"Okay, first of all Cas figured out what they _actually_ were, or you wouldn't have known about the penny thing. Second, you named the last ones _Jefferson Starships_."

Dean's scoff is lost under the sound of a duffel hitting the ground, a weapon being drawn, the metallic ratcheting of a hammer.

Bucky doesn't move. He watches the tall man pointing the Taurus PT92AFS at him, and he doesn't move.

_There will be motion before he pulls the trigger; the best protection is toward him rather than away or under the table._

Dean's face appears near the tall man's shoulder; expression flat and hands reaching for his own weapon. His eyes flick between Bucky and the man who must be his brother.

"Uh. Hey, Sarge." They've both obviously taken a beating, though they've also had a few days to heal. "I don't suppose you can tell me why Sammy here thinks he should shoot you in the head."

Sam, whose eyes haven't left Bucky, turns slightly toward Dean. "Jesus Christ, Dean —" he starts, but Castiel moves closer. Not quite between Bucky and the muzzle of the gun.

"He's not a threat, Sam."

"The hell he isn't! Cas, what the hell is the _Winter Soldier_ doing here?"

Dean's face does something Bucky can't see clearly because he hasn't moved, is still watching Sam's finger on the trigger. His hands resting carefully on the table.

 _Breathe,_ he reminds himself. _Calm. Still. You have no mission. Survival is the mission._

"The _what_?" Dean sounds genuinely baffled. "I'm not sure whose Netflix access I should cut off first."

"The Winter Soldier," Castiel answers Dean before Sam can speak, "was a Russian assassin once called a ghost. He was there during the destruction of SHIELD in New York. He was a tool of Hydra."

He pauses; Bucky focuses on keeping his hands still.

"Wait, like Greek mythology hydra? A monster?"

_The man on the bridge, who was he? I knew him._

"No, like New York City. Captain America?"

_Then finish it. Because I'm with you 'til the end of the line._

"New York's not exactly our turf, Sam, and I never read Dad's comic books."

Bucky blinks, once. Slowly. Tries to look small. Less threatening. Regrets taking off the army surplus jacket.

_That's Stark-level stuff._

Castiel speaks again. "You're missing the point."

"Then tell me, Cas."

Bucky knows Sam is not going to shoot him; if he were the trigger would already have been pulled. The Soldier knows he must wait until the gun is down to take any action at all, or Sam will fire. The four of them are at rest in a very delicate balance.

"He's a damaged _man_. Not a broken tool. The only time he's threatened us—me was when he had a flashback."

A look passes between the three of them; Bucky knows both Sam and Dean caught Castiel's slip and is certain there will be an unpleasant conversation later. Not now. Not in front of him.

But Sam's finger is off the trigger, the muzzle starting to point downward.

"I can go," Bucky says, into the silence. Waits until the gun is holstered to rise, reach out for his jacket.

"No," Dean says, along with Castiel's "Don't." Sam rolls his eyes and shakes his head, but scoops up his bag again with a wince and fully enters the room. Giving Bucky—the Soldier—a wide berth. Irritated. Displeased. But affected by Castiel's metaphor.

Castiel meets Sam as soon as he crosses over the line of sigiled tiles. Reaches up and sets his fingertips on Sam's forehead. Bucky remains standing and watches; Castiel's fingers and eyes glow with a light similar in color to but entirely different from Hydra's battlefield weapons and Sam's injuries knit themselves back together smoothly.

The scar tissue on his chest and shoulder itches.

_Some things, once broken, can only mend with time._

Castiel, at least, does not believe Bucky is broken. Or needs to believe he can be mended.

There is a moment, when Sam clears the far set of sigils and Dean nears Castiel. Bucky sees Dean shoulder his pack more closely, sees Castiel start to reach out, sees Dean start to pull back. Neither of them looking into the other's face.

Sam clears his throat. Dean glares, but obediently leans into Castiel's touch. Into that same light. Still not looking at Castiel, who is not looking at him. Sam isn't looking at them, either; he's watching Bucky. But Bucky thinks he doesn't want to see the way Castiel's fingers linger on Dean's face as long as Dean allows them to.

And then Dean's hand comes up and grips Castiel's wrist; he pulls away from the touch and pushes the touch away.

"I'm fine," he growls.

_I had him on the ropes._  
_I know you did._

But this is different. Bucky can't say how. Castiel turns the complex rejection into a gesture at Bucky. 

"He needs your help," he says. "That matter we discussed earlier."

Bucky hears Sam's lips part, the inhale before a question but Castiel turns to face him and whatever Dean's brother sees on his face makes him frown, but nod. He and Castiel start to leave the room but Dean speaks.

"Sam. Wait. I may need you on this."

Sam's grimace speaks volumes, but he puts his kit into Castiel's open hands. Leans in the doorway to the private areas of the bunker; Castiel vanishes down the hallway behind him. Dean sets his kit on a chair and faces Bucky.

"It can wait." They aren't safe if it does, unless he leaves. But Dean and his brother were hunting, had fought, were on the road for some time. And Bucky knew before and knows now how important rest can be for people— _people? people._ —like them.

"Nah," Dean says, "we're good. Sam took the last shift behind the wheel. Gotta ask, though — you ready this time?"

"I hope so." There's a little bit of sick feeling in the hollow of his throat but nothing like the breaking point in Nowhere, Nebraska. Though he'd had no warning then he was about to lose control, either.

Dean nods. "All we get."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta read this chapter. Concrit always welcome. Comments are love.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean and Sam take Bucky back down the stairs they'd come up, through a rather institutional-looking hallway. He can feel his tension ratcheting up a bit, though the sound of a television through one of the doors is oddly reassuring. He glances over his shoulder at Sam, trailing them; he's taller than the man from the bridge but more wiry. Not a man to underestimate, any more than Dean or Castiel are.

Sam's eyebrows draw closer to each other above his nose as Bucky turns away; Bucky catches Dean looking at him, then over Bucky's head at his brother.

"Five minutes," Dean says, breaking the tension with two irascible words as he slows to a stop in front of a door. "Weed whacker."

Bucky shakes his head, a little baffled, and looks over his shoulder at Sam, who rolls his eyes and shrugs. 

"He thinks our hair is too long." Even Bucky can recognize weary amusement in Sam's voice.

"It probably is. What's a weed whacker? Like a scythe?"

Dean snorts, and Sam stares at Bucky for a moment before shaking his head. And then starts to explain the power gardening tool. Dean opens the door; they follow him through.

Bucky thinks, when he realizes he's lost the thread of Sam's words to surprise, that he should really stop expecting anything where Castiel and Dean are concerned. Every machine in the garage they've entered is absolutely beautiful. Well-maintained. 

_...in a few short years, your automobile won't even have to touch the ground at all._

Lightness, hiding a heavy heart. A dame's hand around his forearm. Before the war, he's certain.

He blinks, shakes his head. Pushes down the increasing tickling itch along the back of his neck. Starts to apologize to Sam but realizes both of them are grinning at him. 

He gives a little shrug.

"Yeah," Dean says, misunderstanding, and Sam is relaxed enough to give Bucky a little nod. "And this place… _man_. Lemme give you the tour."

 

The short tour ends with a sadly banged-up car near the outer door: recent damage, steel frame showing so she hit something pretty substantial. And the vehicle has meaning; both men look at her mournfully and Dean kisses his fingers and presses them to the hood. Sam looks away. Bucky is more interested in the workbench and tool chests beyond; he drifts toward them.

The crawling itch is worse, enough for him to shake his body, briefly, trying to throw off the pointless sensation, misfiring nerves like the ones sometimes telling him he can still feel anything more than pressure through his left hand.

"Hey, Sarge?"

He crosses his legs, pivots _(to catch a redheaded girl-no-longer-a-girl from a graceful grand jete with which she easily could kill two men)_ to face Dean.

"Sorry?"

"We still okay?"

He nods. "Memory," he says, trusting these two men will understand what he means; Sam's frown returns but Dean nods. 

" _Just_ a memory?"

"Yes." He's fairly certain. "Bucky."

"What?"

He tilts his head at Dean. "Not Sarge. Bucky."

Dean's frown looks much like Sam's. "Whatever you say, Hoss."

His not-laugh, a smile, but calculated, not real. Trying to reassure, probably failing. "Didn't say hoss."

Dean smirks, Sam's eyes shift. An entire conversation Bucky can't read because they've stopped using words much anymore. He thinks he understands.

He no longer feels like he's a band stretched thin enough to snap; the skin-crawling sensation is there, but he's also aware of something different, a sort of lassitude coming over him. Inexplicable, worrisome. Familiar. Unpleasantly pleasant.

He looks for the chair. The cradle. Knows how this works, where he's supposed to be. Starts to undo his ballistic vest. They'll need access. 

The broadening thing in his chest stops its semi-constant stretching, pulls down into itself again, a hard knot like a pearl in an oyster. Protecting itself, or protecting his insides from an irritant, he doesn't know. 

_You feel nothing._

He hears men's voices, talking over him, the cool air of the room on his chest fading to nothing at the scar tissue melding flesh and metal. Catches a sharp intake of breath, the start of a question and an echo of the inhale but no one has addressed him and he hasn't heard the voice of the man who must be obeyed so he stays silent, standing quietly. They are armed; he is not _(his knife is upstairs on the table and he used and lost everything he had when the helicarrier went down. Everything but the weapon made part of him.)_ All is as it should be in this moment.

_Без муки нет науки._   
_Without torture, no science; adversity is a great teacher._

Repairs will hurt. They always do. He will endure. He always does.

_Де́ло ма́стера бои́тся._   
_The craft fears the craftsman_

The asset does not feel fear. The asset does not feel anything. 

"Sarge? Bucky?"

A familiar baritone voice. But the technicians do not speak to him, and it is not the voice of the man who must be obeyed. 

"Bucky?"

_Who the hell is Bucky?_

He is. _He_ is Bucky. He looks up at the man standing in front of him. Green—no, hazel—eyes, not blue. Taller than Bucky. Slightly taller than the man on the bridge.

"Hey, Sergeant Barnes. You back with us?" A much taller man, standing slightly further back. _Sam._

His voice won't come, so he lowers his chin. Shallowly. Not sure what to expect. Shivers, a little, though he isn't cold.

The man in front of him— _Dean_ —sighs. 

"Whoever added this," he says, pointing at the metal arm, "didn't think much of you." 

He— _Bucky_ —shakes his head. Blinks once, then twice, consciously. Absently tosses his hair out of his face, arms still at his sides, meets Dean's gaze again. Can't identify the emotion he sees there for a long moment. Looks down when he does, speaks mostly to the floor.

"Weapons have to be maintained. They don't need to be cared for." 

Sam makes a soft noise of protest; Bucky looks up just in time to catch the end of what must have been a spectacular expression before Dean speaks. 

"You're not a weapon."

"I was."

Dean's jaw works. "Well, you're not. We're taking this upstairs."

Bucky feels his eyebrows rise, ever so slightly; he makes a small gesture at the workbench and tools. But Dean shakes his head, and Bucky shrugs. He feels the hard little knot uncoiling again; that seldom-used muscle reaching for one more warily inquisitive stretch.

"Sam doesn't trust me."

Dean shrugs. Sam watches and waits; looks unbothered by being mentioned as if he wasn't standing right there.

"Sam thinks he knows who you are, and he doesn't trust that guy."

"And you?"

"Me? I figure everybody's got a past. People like him and you and me and Cas darker than most." Dean looks past Bucky to the damaged black car behind him. A silence spreads between them, still and thick and neither comfortable nor uncomfortable. Bucky makes a fist with the metal arm, considering his own past. The things he's done. The century the man who must — _Pierce_ , he interrupts himself, fiercely — the century _Pierce_ would have had him believe he shaped.

Even if he didn't know the past was too large for one man to change, Dean and Sam and Castiel and what he knows of their respective histories would tell him of yet another lie. 

Dean gives himself a full body shake, glances at Sam before he looks back at Bucky. 

"If people judged me on who I've been, I wouldn't have much chance to keep doing what good I can," he says, and Bucky knows the shadows turning the green in Dean's eyes nearly gray. Lets him pause, change mental gears.

"Cas doesn't have the best track record with people. Still. He says you can be trusted, so I'll give you a chance. And if I do, Sam most often does."

Dean rubs at the corner of his mouth. "'Sides, you already know he won't hesitate to draw down if he thinks he has to."

Bucky can't argue; gives Dean a half-smile, almost genuine this time.

"You said upstairs," he says, shifting his weight to his heels, suggesting Dean take the lead.

"Yeah." Dean's smirk is back, covering whatever he's thinking, and he makes a broad gesture with his hands. "After you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to pslasher and shinychimera for their beta assistance.
> 
> Hello again to my lovely, lovely subscribers!
> 
> My profound apologies to any Russian speakers reading this, as my Russian is kind of pathetic.


	6. Chapter 6

The makeshift setup they manage—a narrow side table haphazardly cleared and placed between Dean and Bucky, the arm resting on it and the two of them sitting, facing each other—puts Bucky in mind of school, somehow. A lot. Different sensations depending on whether he thinks of boxy, icy classrooms before or after the man from the bridge. Cold, and boring. Cold, and interesting. 

_Rogers! Stop that at once! Barnes!_

He's started, more than once, to suggest tying the arm down. Tying him down. Flashbacks are what they are. But their coordinated silent competence, or the ghost memories of school, or the not-angel down the hall, or the awareness of the times before he's been strapped down or frozen in place, the burn of electricity through his body and his brain, or all of the above, quiet the words in his throat.

Dean, for his part, looks like a man presented with an impossible puzzle. He's twisting a hex key through his fingers like a talisman. Sam hovers behind him, still frowning.

"You're sure you don't know how to open this up?" Dean asks.

Bucky shakes his head, lets the corners of his mouth curl. "Not even to reenable it. If something went wrong in the field I was" ( _to extract himself and await orders_ ) "screwed."

_Shock, when the edge of the shield crushed two of the plates of his arm._

"I'm going to touch you," Dean warns him. Bucky isn't actually surprised when he himself doesn't tense up; Sam looks wound up enough for all three of them. The pressure of Dean's fingers registers through the arm's sensors. Pressure, but no pain. His brain falsely tells him he feels skin-warmth. His brain sometimes thinks his left arm is still attached. 

Pierce's hands were always hot and dry. Zola's were steady, but often clammy. The girl from the Red Room, her hands were strong and warm. The man from the bridge, though, his hands were always cold.

_Geez, Stevie, you been carrying ice all day? Nah, don't gimme that look. It's like your ma keeps saying, right?_

"Cold hands, warm heart," he finishes aloud. 

Dean's lips twist. "What?"

Bucky shakes his head. "I remembered. Do people still say that?"

"Sometimes." Dean starts to say more, but _presses_ near Bucky's armpit and they all hear the soft whine of the servos when the plates louver themselves open.

Even Sam cranes forward in curiosity. Bucky doesn't look, doesn't want to see how not-him this thing he's had to accept as part of himself is. Doesn't want the sudden wave of nausea, of jellied knees, of _feelings_. Sick in his gut like relying on Dum Dum's rig and gravity to beat a train's momentum, like coasters at Coney Island, like being the only man with a clear shot and the will to take it, like standing on a metal catwalk with an abyss of flame and explosion between them and _no, not without you!_

"Bucky?"

"Yeah," he manages to rasp, "I'm still here."

He's not, he's caught somewhere between memory and reality so he makes himself look into Dean's face. Tries to see him rather than the dead ( _his kills_ and the shame and grief rush through him like a speeding train) and the dying. Dean stares back until he's sure, then his focus returns to the workings of the arm, and Bucky winces at the sharp electric jolt when he accidentally plucks at the metallic nerve fiber allowing him control of the limb.

"Sorry," Dean says. Bucky starts to shake his head—no apology needed—but the softness in Dean's eyes, faint crinkling of their corners, the sympathetic thin line of his lips stops Bucky cold. 

The look on Dean's face, and his own increased inability to take a breath against the explosive expansion in his chest.

It's hope, Bucky finally recognizes. But more... he _trusts_ Dean didn't make that mistake on purpose. Because Bucky is vulnerable because he _chose_ to be. Because he had the choice _not_ to be. 

Because in this moment he knows his own mind. Because he will not harm Dean or Sam or Castiel. Because he saved the man from the bridge. Because he has started to _remember_.

_The prickling-soft-warm brush of feathers against his cheek._

"Dean, I think…" Sam says, pointing over Dean's shoulder. Dean shushes him, sharply. 

"You always sucked at _Operation_ , Sammy," he says.

"Yeah, and computers are not your thing," Sam shoots back. "Can you pull that bundle back without hurting him again?"

Dean looks at Bucky. "You mind if he gets in here?"

Bucky, still confused by the operation reference, considers Sam. Dean trusts him. Castiel trusts him. Bucky can choose to trust him or not, and if Sam has seen a threat, Bucky needs it eliminated.

"Don't disable the arm," he says. He already has to compensate; doesn't even want to _think_ about how the dead weight would drag at his shoulder, back, and side.

He also doesn't understand the look that passes between Sam and Dean; he can't miss the way their eyes flick in near-unison toward Dean's forearm. Sam brings his attention back to Bucky.

"No—there's a port by your wrist; probably just be for firmware updates but I'd rather check than guess."

Bucky blinks, slowly. Tries to parse that sentence.

"Got me," Dean says, "but Sam knows what he's talking about."

Bucky's lips twist; Sam sighs. "There has to be some way to connect the arm with your brain. I _assume_ ," he glares at Dean, clearly daring him to say anything, "whoever created the connection used some sort of software to interface between...the...two."

He falls silent; Bucky identifies his own feeling, the tension in his forehead drawing his eyebrows up, as skepticism. A new-old feeling. 

"What I saw was probably for maintenance."

"But better safe than stupid," Dean finishes for him.

Sam huffs, nodding.

_How can I? You're taking all the stupid with you._

"Do what you gotta," Bucky says, and Dean shifts out of Sam's way.

Bucky still doesn't want to see the inside of his arm but he does want to know what the words Sam used meant, so he watches the two of them work together, more-or-less seamlessly. Sam pulls out a cable while Dean carefully shifts the bundles of red-wrapped wires simulating muscle for him; once he does, all three of them can see the narrow hole inside Bucky's wrist.

He's frowning again — Bucky wonders if that's just how his face looks — but it's taken on a different shape, more around his eyes and mouth than forehead. Sam's careful when he brings the short narrow end of the cable in place, tests to see if he can seat it. His eyebrows raise and his eyes widen just a touch when it sockets in; Bucky feels a faint boost in the constant electrical hum but nothing more.

Meanwhile, Dean has gone back to what he was doing before Sam interrupted, pulls the pliers away from the bundles of cables and cogs and gears in his artificial forearm. Dean drops a second metallic piece next to the first one Bucky hadn't heard hit the table. "Those are the only mechanical parts that don't fit. So there's your LoJack, Sergeant Buck."

"LoJack?" 

"Where did Cas say you were from, again?"

Bucky looks at him, expression deliberately neutral. 

"Brooklyn, by way of the Second World War and a stint in Russia."

Dean blinks, his mouth snaps shut, and he looks over his shoulder at Sam with his eyebrows way up high. Sam shrugs, but even as intent as he is on the laptop connected to the arm he's trying very hard not to grin. Bucky lets his own forgotten mischievous smile show when Dean looks back at him.

"Every time I think we've heard or seen everything," Dean says, slowly, like he's trying to decide whether Bucky's funning with him or not. He picks up the pliers again and double-checks his work. 

"'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,'" Bucky quotes at him. Not really expecting Dean to catch the reference, but there's a flash of green from beneath his lashes and a broad smirk.

"I dunno, Hamlet" he says, leaning back. "My philosophy already includes ghosts, vampires, demons, and clowns. Among other things."

Sam spares him a quick but deadly look, so at least one of that list was a dig between brothers.

"You want us to get rid of those?" Dean asks, gesturing at the thin plastic-and-metal pieces he'd removed from the arm. Bucky shakes his head.

"Can't have this be the last place they pick up a signal from," he says, and Dean and Sam both nod like he's given the answer they were expecting — or hoping for.

Sam sits back with a sigh; for just a moment his eyes and mouth take on a pinched look but he's back to merely solemn when he says, "I don't see anything in the code to worry about, no backdoor tracking algorithm."

Bucky and Dean both give him slightly blank looks. Dean presses at the same spot he'd touched earlier and nods when the plates of the arm close up again, servos much quieter this time

"They can't use the prosthetic itself to track you," Sam simplifies.

"Good," Bucky says, scooping the small devices into his hand, into the front pocket of his pants, all the ice of winter in his voice, "I've got plans for these."

_Bait._

He won't need to kill Hydra's foot soldiers, just inconvenience them until S.H.I.E.L.D. — or whatever's left of the organization — can pick them up. There are certain specific targets, however, he can draw out. People he can eliminate to help weaken the whole structure.

"Dean…" Sam says, worry in his voice. But Dean just turns his head to look at Sam for a moment; Bucky follows his gaze and shakes his head at Sam.

"I won't do those things anymore," he says, and he knows the promise, however fiercely meant, can't possibly be reassuring with the way his body and the muscles of his face are stiff even when he smiles. "I never took lives for my own profit, anyway. But I'm too far down that road to turn back now, not completely."

He expects Sam to argue with him, try and talk him away from whatever violence Sam thinks is lurking in Bucky's head or arm, but he doesn't. Just meets Bucky's look with one of his own; the same weary acceptance of the high stakes surrounding all of them as Dean. And Cas. And Bucky himself.

And Natalia. And...Steve. But Bucky's not ready to look there too closely, not yet. Not until he takes care of some of the dangers he doubts anyone outside Hydra knows are left behind. 

"Yeah," Sam says, "I get it. guys like us…" 

Dean finishes his thought. "...we don't get a happy ending."

Bucky cocks his head, looks between them. Considers the strange hominess of the place around them. The way they clearly have each other. The multiple tensions between Dean and Castiel. 

_They'll catch you. Or worse, they'll actually take you!_   
_Look, I know you don't think I can do this...this isn't about me._

Bucky thinks...he's fairly certain he knew Steve _could,_ which had been his real fear.

_You're a Punk._   
_Jerk._

"До́брое бра́тство — лу́чшее бога́тство." Bucky says.

"Gesundheit," Dean answers, and Bucky can tell the response is reflexive by the way Sam rolls his eyes.

"Sorry. It's Russian," he says. He can't remember where he heard the phrase. "A proverb. It translates...Good brotherhood is the best wealth."

They don't quite look at each other. They both look to the doorway, toward the hall and the door behind which Castiel retreated. 

"I don't know if I believe in endings," Bucky says, considering the tee shirt the chef at the diner had been wearing. _Death is only the end if you assume the story is about you_. "Happy or otherwise."

Sam and Dean do look at each other; Bucky flexes his metal fingers, testing their function. Another silent conversation takes place between the brothers, and then Dean cuts it off with a small gesture of his fingers. Bucky slides to his feet and starts to pull the vest on, drawing their attention back to him.

"You know I can't stay."

Their nods, like their frowns, are quite similar; the same tense body language.

"The offer stands," Dean says. "You do what you have to, but if you make it back this way, and any of us are still here…"

Bucky nods. "If you need me, I figure Castiel can find me."

All the same ifs hang between them. _Metatron. Hydra. Something they're trying to protect him from. Something he's trying to protect them from. Life, death, and the Avengers._

He extends his hand. "Dean, Sam. It's definitely been a pleasure. I owe you. Tell Castiel I'll see him again some time."

"Will do," Dean says, and there's just the hint of a wink when he shakes Bucky's hand and finishes with, "hoss."

Sam also shakes Bucky's hand; his hand is about the same temperature as Bucky's, dry, and firm without an effort at painful. 

"Be careful out there," he says.

"You, too," Bucky answers, for the moment at peace with the uncertain future. "All three of you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you my lovely subscribers for coming along with me.
> 
> And all the thanks and love to sharpestscalpel, shinychimera, and pslasher for their beta love.


	7. Chapter 7

Bucky is drowsing on a motel room floor, between the beds, when he feels a rush of air and a soft pop in his ears, like a change in altitude. He sits up, looks toward Castiel, and then shoots to his feet.

The angel-not-angel looks like hell, and there's blood on his knuckles and his trenchcoat. Bucky takes a step toward him and pauses when Castiel pulls back.

"Hello," Bucky says, quietly, and Castiel looks up at him rather than continuing to stare at the corner of the fully-made bed. Castiel frowns.

"Why were you on the floor?"

"Bed's too soft. Is any of that yours?"

Castiel looks down at himself, then shakes his head. "Knuckles, perhaps. I found Metatron."

Bucky gestures for Castiel to sit down on the bed, ducks into the bathroom for a washcloth. When he returns, Castiel is studying his bloodied knuckles and actually flinches when Bucky crosses into his peripheral vision.

"Did you kill him?" Bucky recognizes a sort of indifferent curiosity in himself; he slowly holds out the cloth for Castiel to take. 

"Thank you," he says, and begins wiping off his knuckles before he answers Bucky's question. "No. Death would have been too easy."

Bucky leans against the wall, giving Castiel plenty of room, and waits.

Castiel studies the broken skin over his knuckles, the red-streaked cloth dangling from his fingers.

"I did put him in traction."

"You're angry."

Castiel looks up at him, blue eyes fleetingly wide with surprise. Bucky shrugs.

"I'm guessing he had something to do with those things you and I have in common," he says, not really wanting to have any of them out in the air even between he and Castiel; his own heart rate is more elevated than he'd like but he's got a handle on the past for the moment. "I know I'm angry. And with myself, too. Not just them."

"I —" Castiel starts, and twists the washcloth around his fingers. "Yes.

"I was a soldier, and I rebelled, and I was remade, and I have been… _used_. Made into a tool. Sometimes unwittingly. But other times…"

"Other times, you did it to yourself." Bucky shifts a little, using the wall to help ease the near-constant ache in his shoulder. He takes a deep breath, exhales slowly. Castiel watches him, hands still. A car turns into the parking lot, lights briefly illuminating Bucky and the wall behind him. He looks toward the sound of tire on gravel, but he knows he's safe enough for the moment.

"I may have been wrong," Castiel says, dully. "About there always being a choice."

"No, you weren't," Bucky says, and then reconsiders. "I know what it's like to be a weapon. I don't know what it's like to be an angel."

He points upward. "Assuming there's a heaven, I meant."

Castiel nods. "It...has changed. Had changed. Thanks to Metatron, I can't return."

"I can't go home, either."

Castiel shifts, and for a moment Bucky lets himself be distracted by the strange shape of his shadow against the wall.

"Well," Bucky continues. "Maybe we both can. Just...maybe home isn't where we thought it was."

Castiel's frown draws dark lines down his face. 

"I don't—"

Bucky makes a sharp gesture with the vibranium arm. "I don't think we get to understand. I think maybe's all we get, in the end.

"You said it yourself. Better to get to choose. Better to see the options, even if you feel like you can't actually touch one or more of 'em. But that means sometimes making _really bad choices_ , and it means sometimes the good choices have bad consequences. Since I'm guessing you can't see the future any more than I can."

Castiel shakes his head, shivers. Bucky's eyes track what looks like a shadowy feather falling from near Castiel's shoulder to the floor. He looks back at Castiel's face, sees that bird-like look of curiosity beneath the weary resignation and the blood.

"Go home, Castiel. Tell Dean you found Metatron, and what you learned from him. I've got a few more things I need to do, a few more weapons I can clear from the field, before I'll be ready to ask if I've got a home anymore. Hopefully find a little redemption before I face the consequences of my own bad-good choices."

_I'm alive, Castiel, and so are you. We made mistakes, but we chose to live. And I can't believe that decision was a mistake, for either of us. We just have to keep living with the consequences of our choices._

He hopes Castiel can hear or feel or see some of what he's thinking; he's not really praying.

Much.

"Hang on to your maybes, and I promise to hang on to mine."

Castiel lifts his head and _stares_ at Bucky for more than long enough to make him shift again, wary and uncomfortable. In the second he shifts his attention, thinking about getting some gauze to wrap Castiel's sluggishly-bleeding knuckles the angel-not-angel has closed the distance between them. He's not standing as close as he did to Dean, but closer than he had to Sam. Bucky doesn't know what that might mean until Castiel leans forward and gives him an awkward embrace.

Bucky returns it, careful where he puts his hands because just because he can't _see_ Castiel's wings doesn't mean he's unaware they're there. And lets go, quickly, because he trusts himself more than he did, but not enough to stay too close to anyone for too long. Fortunately, Castiel is also already stepping back.

"I accept. And also promise."

Bucky feels the familiar brush of feathers against his cheek when Castiel vanishes.

He rubs beneath his ear, at the join of his jaw, and curls back up in his makeshift pile of sheets and blankets. Feels the fading prickle of the fallen feather against the back of his hand, and wonders if Castiel hadn't shown him a miracle after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to shinychimera for beta.
> 
> And thanks to you lovely readers for coming along on this ride.


End file.
